Page 3 of The Sin-Binder’s Fate (The Seven Sins Academy #1)

I don’t know how long I stand there, staring at the space where he disappeared, heat still coiling in my stomach, my pulse tangled between anger and something else I don’t want to name.

I exhale sharply, forcing myself to move. One foot in front of the other. That’s all I need to do. Find the headmaster’s office. Figure out why I’m here. Try to forget the way his voice curled around my throat like a noose.

The halls stretch out before me in endless, twisting corridors, black stone and glistening veins of silver carved into walls too tall, too old. The sconces flicker as I pass, burning with that same eerie, blue-black flame, shadows stretching in the wrong directions.

Everything feels warped.

I take another turn. Then another. The hallways shift. They shouldn’t. I know they shouldn’t. But the longer I walk, the less I’m certain the layout is even real .

A sharp pang of frustration knots between my ribs. This place is fucking with me.

"Lost, little thing?"

The voice is velvet. Soft enough to make my steps halt.

I don’t know where he comes from. One second, the hall is empty. The next, he’s there, leaning against the stone like he’s been watching me the whole time.

My pulse stumbles.

He’s beautiful.

Not in the way the others were, not sharp, not cruel. No, this one is something else entirely. A slow sin, a warm hand sliding up the inside of your thigh, a promise you should never trust.

Tousled dark hair, the kind of messy that looks intentional. A uniform worn too loose, shirt untucked, sleeves rolled up, the edges of something gold and intricate inked into the skin of his forearm.

But his mouth. Soft, sinful lips, the kind that curve just before a kiss, just before a bite. His head tilts as he watches me, eyes a shade of deep, liquid gold, molten under the dim lighting.

I don’t realize I haven’t responded until his lips curl. A slow, knowing smirk.

"You look like you could use some help."

I straighten. “I’m fine.”

His gaze drags over me, lingering, slow. "Mm. You don’t look fine."

The way he says it makes something prickle beneath my skin, a slow stroke of heat, a sensation I can’t shake.

I fold my arms. "Do you always show up out of nowhere?"

His smile deepens. "Only for the interesting ones. "

I narrow my eyes. "Right. And let me guess, you just happen to know where the headmaster’s office is?"

He pushes off the wall with a lazy grace, stepping closer. The air between us changes, charged with something too warm, too intimate.

Something I don’t understand.

"You could wander these halls for hours," he murmurs, voice a slow pour of honey, dark and inviting. "Or you could let me take you exactly where you need to be."

I should say no.

I should say no.

But the way he looks at me…

The way his voice slides down my spine, making my pulse slow, making my thoughts tangle, making my lips part before I can stop them,

"Fine. Lead the way."

He grins, and the flicker in his eyes makes my stomach twist. Like he was waiting for that answer.

He moves like he has all the time in the world, each step lazy, effortless, like he’s savored every hall, every turn, every secret this place has to offer.

Me? I just try to keep up.

Even the way he walks is irritatingly smooth, his body shifting like he was born to move through spaces that warp for him, bending under his charm. He barely even looks at the paths we take, yet he never hesitates, like the school knows him.

I focus on my surroundings, trying to memorize the turns, the strange, sharp symbols etched into the walls, the distant echoes of whispers that don’t quite belong to the students. But it’s hard to focus when he is watching me.

Because he is. I can feel it .

I glance at him from the corner of my eye. His expression is unreadable, but his mouth is curved, just a little.

I exhale sharply, gripping the strap of my bag. “Are you going to tell me your name, or do I just call you ‘the guy who appeared out of nowhere’?”

He hums low in his throat. “You could.” A pause, long enough for me to wonder if he’ll answer. Then, his grin sharpens. “Caspian.”

It fits. It drips from his tongue like a secret, like something that shouldn’t be spoken in broad daylight.

My lips part, the taste of his name still lingering in my mind, but before I can say anything, he says mine.

"Luna."

It shouldn’t sound the way it does in his mouth. Slow. Syllables stretched, almost tasted.

I know I didn’t tell him my name.

A prickle works its way down my spine, something uneasy curling beneath my ribs. “Did someone tell you that?”

He smiles. Doesn't answer.

Instead, he gestures toward the hall ahead, leading us past a towering archway, where students move in groups, their voices low, their movements careful.

And then, like he isn’t toying with my name, like he isn’t watching me too closely, he lifts a hand toward a figure standing off to the side, half-hidden in the shadows of the grand staircase.

"That one," Caspian murmurs, like we’re sharing something intimate. "That’s Silas Veyd."

I follow his gaze.

The guy leans against the banister, body rigid but collected, his long, dark coat unbuttoned at the collar, revealing pale skin and a shirt that should be crisp but somehow still looks rumpled.

He watches people move past him, eyes sharp and unreadable.

His arms are folded loosely, but there’s something tense about the way he holds himself, like he’s waiting. Measuring.

His hair falls across his forehead in an unruly way that doesn’t suit the cutting lines of his face, all sharp cheekbones and angles.

Then his gaze flicks up, directly at me.

I don’t know why I expected him to look away.

He doesn’t. Instead, his head tilts, just slightly. A predator seeing something new in its path. Not interested. Not amused. Just assessing.

I exhale, forcing my feet to keep moving. “He seems fun.”

Caspian chuckles beside me. “Oh, Silas? He’s a delight."

I shoot him a dry look. “Somehow, I doubt that.”

Caspian doesn’t argue. He just smiles.

And then, as we turn another corner, he gives me another name.

“Ambrose Dalmar.”

I don’t know why my pulse trips.

Maybe because Caspian’s voice is different when he says it.

Maybe because, when I finally see him, I understand why.

He’s positioned just off the main corridor, perched on the edge of a sleek marble ledge like he owns the space, one leg bent, the other stretched long, a thick, leather-bound book in his hands.

But he isn’t reading. His fingers rest lazily over the pages, his head tilted, dark lashes low as he watches the students moving through the hall.

Or rather, as they move around him.

Because they do. Every single one of them.

No one walks too close. No one lingers. It’s not fear, not the way they shrank away from him.

He’s wearing the same uniform as everyone else, but somehow, it looks different on him.

The crisp lines of his black jacket perfectly tailored, the sheen of obsidian buttons and deep emerald threading catching the dim light.

His collar is undone, just enough to show the hint of something gold and delicate resting against his throat.

A chain. A pendant. A quiet declaration of something I don’t understand.

But the strangest part is his hands.

One rests on the book. The other, gloved.

Black leather, fitted tight over his fingers, covering every inch of skin.

I don’t know why I keep staring at it. I don’t know why my stomach knots at the way he shifts his grip, the faintest flex of his fingers.

Like he’s considering something. Like he’s waiting for someone to step too close.

Caspian keeps walking, but his voice drops, amused and knowing. “I wouldn’t stare too long if I were you.”

I snap my gaze away, heat prickling my skin.

“I wasn’t staring.”

Caspian laughs. “Mm.”

We keep walking, the grand corridor stretching ahead, the headmaster’s office still nowhere in sight. And even as we turn another corner, even as Caspian keeps talking, keeps leading me forward,

I can’t shake the feeling that Ambrose Dalmar knew I was watching. That he wanted me to.

I grip the strap of my bag tighter, forcing my legs to move. The halls are winding, endless, their gothic arches twisting into impossible shapes overhead, etched with symbols that shift when I’m not looking directly at them. I stopped trying to memorize the turns a while ago. It’s useless.

Caspian watches me out of the corner of his eye, smirking like he can hear my thoughts.

“You’re thinking too hard,” he muses.

“I’m trying to figure out how this school isn’t a labyrinth.”

“Oh, but it is,” he says easily. “It just likes to pick and choose who gets lost.”

Great.

I exhale, rolling my shoulders. “You always this cryptic?”

Caspian hums, considering. “Only when it’s fun.”

I should’ve expected that.

We turn another corner, this one wider, opening up to what looks like a study hall, if study halls were designed for people who probably don’t need to study.

Marble columns stretch toward a vaulted ceiling, broken up by lounge chairs, long tables, and bookshelves stacked impossibly high, lined with volumes so old they look like they should crumble to dust.

Most of the students here aren’t reading. Some are bent over books, yes, but others lounge, boots propped up, legs stretched out, their gazes shifting as we enter.

I brace myself for more stares, more murmurs. More of the weight still clawing at my ribs.

But one gaze feels different.

Caspian tilts his chin toward the farthest corner of the room, his voice low, lilting.

"Elias Dain."

My eyes land on him.

Or rather, I think they do.

At first, he barely registers.

Sprawled lazily across an armchair, long legs draped over the armrest, head tipped back like he’s seconds from sleep. His uniform is the same as the others, but there’s a careless disarray to the way he wears it, the top buttons undone, the tie barely hanging on, jacket pooled beside him in a heap.

His hair is silver. A strange, washed-out, almost ashen shade, strands curling over his forehead, his lashes too dark in contrast against his skin. He looks… soft.

Too soft.

Too relaxed.

But then, without warning, his lashes lift.

And I realize I was wrong.

There’s nothing soft about him.

His eyes are quicksilver, sharp and liquid, the color of mercury running molten beneath his skin. And he’s watching me. Not studying. Not measuring. Just watching. Like he already knew I was coming.

A strange unease works its way beneath my ribs.

Then, just as quickly as he looked at me, he closes his eyes again.

Like I wasn’t worth the effort.

Caspian smirks. "Elias is… an acquired taste."

That’s one way to put it.

I shake off the lingering chill as we leave the study hall behind, weaving deeper into the halls, Caspian guiding me through this maze that refuses to end.

He gestures vaguely to an arched entryway leading into something cavernous, dark, and far too deep.

“That,” he muses, “is the lower levels. You don’t want to end up down there. ”

I arch a brow. “Why?”

His smirk deepens. “Because you won’t come back the same.”

Wonderful.

I almost don’t notice him tip his head toward a figure emerging from the shadows ahead.

Caspian leans in slightly, like he’s enjoying this too much.

“And that,” he murmurs, “is Orin Vale.”

The moment I see him, my stomach knots. Because something is wrong.

Orin doesn’t walk like the others. He moves with a weight, his body hungry and restless, his limbs long but not quite loose. His uniform is rumpled, unkempt, the sleeves of his shirt rolled up past his forearms, exposing his skin.

And his skin is marked. Not like a tattoo. Not like anything I’ve ever seen. Dark streaks run along his forearms, veins blackened, webbing out just beneath the surface, pulsing faintly.

Like something inside him is always devouring.

He steps into the dim torchlight, his head tilting slightly, curious. His gaze locks onto mine.

And I swear I feel him. A slow, creeping pull. Like I should step closer. Like I should,

Caspian’s fingers graze the back of my wrist. A touch so light, so easy, that my body barely registers it.

But my mind twists. My pulse jolts. My breath catches.

Orin’s gaze snaps to Caspian instead. A brief flicker. A beat too long. Then, just like that, he’s gone. Vanishing down another corridor.

I exhale, hard, dragging a hand through my hair.

“What the hell was that? ”

Caspian grins.

“Now, that,” he says, “is a much longer story.”

I don’t know how long I stand there, staring down the empty corridor Orin disappeared into, my skin still prickling with the phantom pull of his gaze.

Caspian shifts beside me, exhaling like he’s enjoying whatever the hell just happened. Like watching me unravel is entertainment.

“There are still a few others you need to meet,” he murmurs, tipping his head toward me. “But I think I’ll let you stumble into them on your own.”

I drag a hand down my face. “You’re helpful, you know that?”

His smirk is wicked. “I know.”

Before I can snap at him, he steps closer. Not too much. Just enough that I can feel the shift between us. The change in pressure.

I try to move, but I don’t. Not because I can’t. Because… I don’t want to.

A slow, delicious heat spreads through my veins, my limbs suddenly too light, too warm.

My fingers twitch. My lips part.

Something is happening.

His golden eyes flicker with something deeper now, something dark and syrupy, like honey dripping too slow. Like want curling beneath my skin, making my chest rise in shallow, uneven breaths.

I shouldn’t be this close. But his fingers brush my wrist, featherlight, and the contact sends a ripple through me, something hot and languid pooling low in my stomach.

My thoughts are slipping, turning liquid, the space between us too little, too much.

His smirk deepens, and I know, I know he’s doing this. And he knows I know. But before I can even think to push him away, before I can shove past the dizzying heat curling through my limbs,

He steps back.

The loss is instant.

Like stepping out of the sun into cold, empty shadow.

I inhale sharply, dragging myself back to myself.

Caspian watches me, pleased.

“You’re going to be fun,” he murmurs, voice still silk and velvet and everything that lingers where it shouldn’t.

Then, with a lazy grin, he nods toward the heavy wooden doors just ahead. “Welcome to Daemon Academy, little star. Try not to get eaten alive.”

And then, he’s gone.

Leaving me burning .